


Into Insignificance

by Limey



Category: Disco Elysium (Video Game)
Genre: Car Sex, M/M, Other, Palefuckery, Pre-Relationship, Sex with a Car, The Pale, The Pale Did It, The Pale may cause issues if you are using a screen reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-05
Updated: 2020-08-05
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:14:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25097461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Limey/pseuds/Limey
Summary: After brief but intense Pale exposure, Kim Kitsuragi decides to spend some quality time with his Kineema. A few wires concerning reality are crossed.
Relationships: Harry Du Bois & Kim Kitsuragi, Harry Du Bois/Kim Kitsuragi, Kim Kitsuragi/Kineema
Comments: 13
Kudos: 53





	Into Insignificance

**Author's Note:**

> Fun fact: this is the first thing I wrote for the DE fandom, and I was too ashamed to make it my debut. So I sat on it for a while. Then I posted it anyway.

As a street light flickered, making the dilapidated sidewalk begin to strobe before him, Kim Kitsuragi reconsidered whether his idea to spend some time after work in the Precinct 41 garage was a good one.

He thought his mood might be improved if he did some work on his Kineema. Nothing too major, no new modifications, but perhaps a tune-up, some exterior buffing and some time alone with his thoughts and his hands kept busy. His most recent case alongside Lieutenant Du Bois had left him more rattled than he’d like to admit.

It was a disconcerting sight, one he had hoped never to see with his own eyes during his lifetime. Of course he was distantly aware the world would be gradually swallowed up by the Pale, but he never expected to actually _see_ a porch collapse.

He and Harry had been investigating an abandoned, shelled-out old building in pursuit of a suspect who had given them the slip in the area.

They found a hole. Much, much bigger than the Dolorian church in Martinaise. Like moths nibbling on the abandoned corners of reality, this had gone unnoticed, undiscovered, until they had stumbled upon it.

Kim hadn’t recognised it for what it was. He had refused to believe his eyes, and stepped closer, determined to see past whatever mirage this was, because it wasn’t possible. He couldn’t actually be seeing or feeling this, so it must be a trick by the suspect. If he could just rip it back with his hands he would see it was just an illusݴon, wh𐩠 coul₯n’t he hἔar anyځhin⡋, ᾧho w⡨s h3 ἂnyᾧa⡨ -

Harry had grabbed him by the jacket collar and pulled him back. He had been shouting, apparently. Kim had no memory of it.

He did remember Harry with both hands on his shoulders staring at him, his usually ruddy face lacking all colour, looking at him with worry. 

Then they had coffee at noon in the cafeteria, and Kim got up and had breakfast.

No. That happened _after_. He had a wristwatch. The chronology of his memory did not follow the facts, and he could not bear how his thoughts were so disordered.

He was otherwise fine. Or so he told himself. A brief brush with death was all in a day’s work for the RCM.

Harry had studied him very carefully as they returned to the old silk mill - abandoning their pursuit - to immediately request the building was cordoned off, citing public safety. What else could they do?

The rest of the day, time skipped and jumped in erratic steps. Everything Kim touched seemed to be full of memory, distorting his own. Already made part of him.

Harry noticed how he was out-of-sorts. He stayed close, fending off their colleagues to spare Kim answering them, for which he was grateful. In the afternoon, Harry had made him a coffee. He’d gently curled the mug into his hands. It had been a considerate gesture that caused warmth to bloom in his chest. Kim then remembered receiving another mug, one given to him with a smile and a trill from Dora that he needed something personal at his desk, she was so proud of him -

Not his.

Disturbed, he’d kept quiet for the most of the day, hoping it would wear off. Going to the garage seemed like a good idea: no people, and there would be something grounding, comforting in doing something he had done so many times. In making something better than he was.

He barely remembered shrugging out of his jacket or laying out his tools, but at least that he could chalk that up to muscle memory.

The moon was full in the night sky, casting an otherworldly glow on his beloved Kineema.

Which, perhaps, made it only slightly less odd when he pressed one gloved hand on its chassis, and it spoke to him.

_I need you_.

“I know,” Kim thought back, absently, before realising he had completely lost his mind, because he had just acknowledged his motor-carriage had talked to him.

Was this what it was like, being Harry?

_Touch me_.

“I already am,” was the slightly hysterical thought in his head, even as he let his fingers appreciatively run over the smooth, sleek metal. He kept his vehicle in good condition, sometimes buffed by hand and cloth after a rough day in the grime-smeared streets.

_Yes. But I want more_.

It was funny. If he had ever imagined his Kineema Coupris to have a voice - which, for the record, he had not - he had imagined it would be a strong baritone, a warm drone matching the enthusiastic roar of the engine. The voice he heard was lower, gravelled, more like the wheels on asphalt, the engine rumbling idle. Oddly familiar and comforting.

The Kineema let out a deep purr like a jungle cat as Kim continued to run his hands over the wheel arches, across the door. It was soothing, somehow, to feel connected to something that was his.

_I want us closer. Kim_.

His skin prickled at the words, heat briefly rising at his neck. He was already standing right next to it, but he knew that wasn’t what was meant.

He was willingly flirting with his insanity - good thing no one came to the garage after-hours except for him - and yet, he found himself hesitating. He never was good at being close to anyone, or anything... except this vehicle.

“I don’t know how,” he finally muttered.

_I know_.

The voice was deep affection, sorrow, and acceptance. It stabbed at his lungs. In two words, it neatly sidestepped all the emotional defenses he kept in place.

A well of furious self-loathing bubbled up in him. He was Lieutenant Kim Kitsuragi, and he was not a coward.

Casting aside the tiny inner rational voice that insisted he was overradiated and should immediately leave the garage in search of professional help, he abandoned logic to this new sense of perception, and embraced it. 

He leaned in closer to the door, ignoring the sudden trembling in his legs, his hands, feeling like he was about to do something monumentally reckless.

The liminal space between the door and the windscreen was a thin strip of metal. It felt like the most terrifying thing he could do in the world, to press his lips to it in a soft, dry kiss.

The Kineema sighed, and he knew, innately, he was the cause. His insides lit up as if he had been kissed back.

_Tease_.

The voice let the word out slowly, savouring.

_More_.

It was both a demand and a plea and it hooked Kim in the gut, and he pressed his lips harder to the metal. The vehicle sighed once more against him. He could almost feel it breathing, warm and soft against him instead of cold and unyielding. He had experienced contradictions in sensation and memory all day, and while he wasn’t _used_ to it, it at least made _sense_ to his scrambled nervous system.

He pressed soft kisses to the same place, one more daring, his nose brushing the paintwork as he pressed in more indulgently.

_Kim_.

That voice, quavering and hungry, was a firing-gun to his libido. It made it even easier to let his hands slide over the hot body he was pressed against - or was that his own touch that was warm? - wanting to drink in its shape through his fingertips. Wanting to hear that voice form his name again. He wanted -

_Kim_.

He would do anything to hear more. Heat coiled in his gut, and his silent prayers were answered when the voice next growled its feverish demand.

_Kim. Open me up with those strong, beautiful hands_.

“Fuck,” he whispered, wires crossed in his brain, as he tried to work out exactly how to do that within these pathetic limits of reality -

Reality chose to help him - or the Kineema did - as the door lock popped open with a loud _clunk_.

He didn’t hesitate, fingers looping into the handle, opening the door carefully, reverently, an extra layer of meaning to it, somehow.

_I want you inside me_.

He left the door open, light flooding the carriage as he hauled himself into the driver’s seat with alacrity. This was familiar to him - the driving seat. Professionally, personally, metaphorically. His confidence returned, and his hands moved of their own accord, fingers tracing the outline of the steering wheel, letting them freefall over every bump in the grip.

The Kineema’s voice was a garbled, desperate breath. He repeated the motion, thumbs circling the underside of the wheel.

_You are perfect_. 

The praise was so genuine, so matter-of-fact, Kim’s hands faltered. He was far from perfect, but his pride swelled along with his bloodflow. He had no idea where this was going, but if perfection was the standard set, he would damn well see it through.

He released the wheel and pushed back into the seat, stroked the flanks of fabric. He arched into it, the Kineema’s lap.

_Yes, yes, Kim. That feels so good_.

What else - what else could he do, to keep that voice pleading his name -

A dissatisfied whine reached his ears. 

_You too, Kim. I want to see you. Please_.

He was breathing hard, a little dizzy with lust. It took a moment for the words to resolve themselves, but just in case he hadn’t, delivered once more in that low register that made his whole body melt -

_Clothes off. I want to see you, so bad_.

Shivering, he pulled his shirt over his head, and he fancied he could feel the engine rumbling its approval beneath his thighs. Shoes were easily kicked off, his pants fumbled open and some wriggling had them shoved below his knees -

_Fuck, you’re gorgeous_.

Kim hardly thought so, but the way the voice said it made him _feel_ it. The garage was dark, and the internal lights showed his indecent reflection in the windscreen: legs spread, pants barely clinging to his ankles, dishevelled, still wearing his gloves where they rested on his thighs. His underwear, rumpled from how roughly he’d pulled his clothes off, his erect cock making its bid for freedom.

_I want to see all of you_.

Kim shuddered, and hooked his thumbs into his underwear and pulled them off as well. He kicked the pool of fabric from his ankles. He felt exposed, nerves fluttering: it had been a while since he had been so towards another living soul, but this was different. It felt good, laid bare with the confidence he would be well-received. He had already taken the hardest step, to surrender to this feeling. This was just sealing the deal.

There was a pause, where all he could hear was his own deep breathing. Then -

_God. You’re the hottest, coolest thing I’ve ever seen_.

“No I’m not,” he muttered, more automatically than anything else, as he fought not to writhe in the seat, he was so turned on by the praise.

_You are. And I want to see you come for me_.

Oh, fuck. Who would just say something like _that_?

His Kineema knew him better than he knew himself when it came to dirty little fantasies. There was nothing better than an order you wanted to obey. It no longer felt foolish to meet his own eye in the rear-view mirror, bringing his wrist to his lips so he could bite into one glove and pull it off with his teeth.

He could feel the purr of approval, under him, over him, around him, his senses full of warmth as his naked hand slid down the length of his body to grasp himself. His free, gloved hand scrabbled in want to grip something. Driver’s instinct had him clasp the handle of the gearstick.

_Kim, fuck_...

His body took over, bone-deep instinct at hearing that low voice croon its approval as he stroked himself without finesse. The voice didn’t stop, a constant low growl of desire stoking the fire to unimaginable heights.

Kim knew, distantly, he was not the kind of person who let himself enjoy anything too much, and anything he did was strictly delimited. Somehow, he knew this voice would push and pull at his limits, but never break them. 

When they were broken, it would be Kim’s choice, and he would be in safe hands when he did.

_Mm, stay with me baby, let me look at you_... 

He hadn’t realised he had closed his eyes, gone too far into his own head. He opened them.

It was darker, now. The door had fallen loosely shut; the lights still on. The interior of the motor carriage was warm, the air close with his own perspiration and musk, cocooning him like the intimacy of bedsheets and a body above his. He wasn’t really seeing anything except the sparkles in the edge of his vision.

He adjusted his grip on the gearstick, rolled his palm over the surface. Felt the loving rumble he received for it in his very bones. His hand sped up, and the slap of skin-on-skin sounded loud in the close space. Made him think of a human body wrapped around him, instead of metal and fabric. He tensed, despite himself.

_Relax, Kim_.

Yes. Nobody here but him and the Kineema: dependable, command-able, his, only his, it loved him back without risk -

_I do. I do love you. If you need to hear it._

_I’ll say it as often as you want._

He felt something strange and bright in his chest. His lungs, opening to those words, made as though he were Dolores Dei to know he was _loved_ -

He let out a soft gasp, a second layer of pleasure overwhelming the physical, blending together into an indescribable high. He could almost feel the pressure against him, something holding him close, dependable and strong so he could fall apart without losing everything.

The ache in him built and the brief, addled thought as he reached his peak came together, _this is why people choose to walk into the Pale_.

And then he came, arched up into his own hand, making a mess of himself.

...

There was a certain clarity that came after orgasm. While he was still sweat-drenched and pale-drenched, embarrassedly mopping up his stomach and thighs with his balled-up underwear, a few things resolved in his mind. 

First: he had sort-of had sex with his Kineema.

Definitely not a fact he would admit to anytime soon.

Second: that he hadn’t really had sex with his Kineema.

The first fact was somehow easier to reconcile than the second. They called the Pale “the blend-over of self”, and he had never really understood what that meant until now.

His logical brain couldn’t help but pull the threads together to look for patterns, and the result was not a pattern, but a picture of a face he knew well, but did not want to admit sat sometimes more in his lungs than it did his head.

Whatever his emotional state might be, he was first a gentleman and a professional: he got dressed, sans ruined underwear, and got out the buffing cloth and cleaned the Kineema. It felt wrong to just walk away in the afterglow without giving it due appreciation. Even if he did feel a little foolish.

He packed his tools away, deciding he had _definitely_ done enough with his Kineema for an evening, and hoped a good night’s sleep would help put him right.

It was different, this time, sitting in the driver’s seat, pulling out of the garage and into the night.

_No rush. I’ll be waiting for you to work it out_. He thought he could hear the voice, amused and contented, rumbling low over the vibration of the machinery. _If I’m lucky, it might be only a twenty-hour thought project_.


End file.
